The Last Templar

Chapter 58

A s they descended into the cold gloom of the lake, Tess was overcome with a familiar rush, one that she craved badly. There was something almost mystical in knowing that she may be about to see things that had not been seen by human eyes for many years. It was already a heady feeling on land, closing in on the remnants of long-lost civilizations that lay hidden beneath centuries of sand and earth. When the site was buried under a mountain of water, the exhilaration was even greater.

This dive, though, trumped them all as far as she was concerned. If most excavations or dives at least began with the promise of some great discovery, they more often than not proved disappointing. This one was different. The trail of clues that had brought them to this lake, the nature of the coded message, and the lengths to which people were prepared to go to get to it all pointed to her being on the verge of an archaeological discovery of far greater significance than anything she had ever realistically expected to make.

They were now twenty feet down and descending slowly. Between the cold and the anticipation, it was as if every last pore on her body had suddenly come alive. She looked up at where the sunlight dappled the surface. The bottom of the old man's boat was suspended serenely above her, the water gently lapping against it. The water clarity was good considering they were basically in a blocked-up river, but the darkness was quickly closing in around them.

There was still no sign of the bottom. Tess switched on the light rig she held, its high-intensity discharge light taking a few seconds before reaching its full output and illuminating the eerie blackness ahead of her. Small particles danced in the water before her, slowly gliding by in the current, heading for the dam. She glanced at Reilly sinking down beside her as a small school of trout weaved in curiously before darting away into the dark.

She noticed Reilly gesturing below and saw the bottom of the lake slowly coming into view. It was disconcerting at first: even with the years of silt and settlement since the dam had been built, it didn't look like the seabeds she was used to. In fact, it looked just like what it was: a submerged valley, strewn with rocks and the bare trunks of long-dead trees. Thick, dark algae covered most of it.

They swam side by side, spiraling out, scanning the bottom, then her trained eyes spotted it first.

The old man had been true to his word; there, barely noticeable in this otherworldly landscape, were the ghostly remains of the town.

At first, all that she could make out were clusters of eroded stone walls, then gradually she began to get some sense of shape and purpose and could see how the stones formed uniform, linear shapes.

She led Reilly down further and now she could make out a street and some houses. They glided ahead, looking down at the remains of the old village, suspended over it in the stygian darkness like explorers hovering over an alien land. It was a surreal sight, the leafless branches of dead trees swaying in the faint current like the beckoning limbs of captive souls.

A sudden movement swung her eyes to the left. A school of small fish that had been feeding off clumps of algae were scattering into the shadows. Turning back, she noticed that the houses gave way to an open space. Pushing toward it, she saw the black stump of a huge tree, the spindly remains of its rotted branches barely swaying. There it was: they had found the willow. She unconsciously let out a burst of air, a small cloud of bubbles coursing out of her regulator and racing up to the surface. Her eyes feverishly scanned the surroundings. She knew it had to be close. As Reilly joined her, she spotted it: the crumbled remains of what must have been the well, a few yards upstream from the stump. She pushed forward, the beam from her light penetrating the wall of darkness beyond the well. And there, just beyond, rising upward with a kind of melancholy grandeur, were the walls of the church.

She glanced at Reilly. He was floating beside her, taking it all in, clearly as much in awe of it as she was. She kicked ahead, swooping down on the looming structure. Silt had built up against its sides, buttressing its walls. Its roof was badly gutted. As she played the light across the walls, she could tell that the condition of the church was so bad that it was most certainly in a much worse state than it had been seven hundred years ago, when the Templars had found it.

With Reilly following her, Tess dropped down and, like a bird swooping into a barn, she swam through the church's portal, where a massive door hung lopsidedly. Inside now, hovering fifteen feet above the church's floor, they moved along an underwater gallery of columns, some of them collapsed. The walls had prevented too much silt from piling in, which bode well for finding the gravestone. They advanced in tight formation, the light creating a kaleidoscope of shadows in the deep recesses to their sides.

Tess looked around, recording every macabre shape and shadow while trying to keep her racing heartbeat under control. With the portal now swallowed by the darkness behind them, she signaled to Reilly and dropped down to bottom. He followed. A huge smashed stone slab lay there, which she guessed had been part of the altar. It was smothered with algae; tiny crawfish were skulking all over it. She checked the time and gave Reilly a ten-finger signal. They had to start their ascent in as many minutes; there hadn't been enough air in the tanks to allow a long decompression stop.

Tess knew they were now close. Gliding inches from the bottom of the church, she brushed the silt off the floor gently, trying not to create too much of a cloud. There was no sign of any flagstones.

Just small debris and more silt, through which eels slithered. Then Reilly nudged her. He said something, his voice a garbled, metallic sound amid the bubbling water that escaped from his mouthpiece. She watched him reach down and whisk away some of the silt and stones off a small alcove. The floor revealed some faded carved letters. It was a grave marker. She was breathing fast now. Tracing the lettering with her finger she made out the name: Caio. She looked at Reilly, her eyes ablaze with excitement. His eyes smiled back. Laboriously and carefully, they cleared sand away from more stones. Her heart was now hammering deafeningly in her ears as, letter by letter, more names appeared. And then, through the silt, it appeared: Romiti.

Aimard's letter was real. The decoder built by the FBI had been accurate and, most gratifying of all, her assumptions were correct.

They had found it.